


Follow the Storm

by BoxOnTheNile



Series: Storm [1]
Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Changeling Lovelace, Dragon Minkowski, F/F, Incubus Kepler, M/M, Oracle Koudelka, Origin Stories, Phoenix Jacobi, Siren Eiffel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2019-11-15 23:27:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18083006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoxOnTheNile/pseuds/BoxOnTheNile
Summary: The Fair Folk aren't unknown. They haven’t been hidden in over a century, most of the “Fae Rights” campaign long over with. There’s lingering prejudice, of course, but when Doug’s middle school gym class has their swimming unit and Doug’s sides split with gills, his classmates just mutter about how bad their times are going to look next to a mer’s and move on.Doug doesn’t correct their one misconception. He’s not merfolk; he’s asiren. He eats sushi all the time because otherwise he might be hungry forthem.~[Daniel] passes as human very, very well, apparently, that not even a creature that feeds on life energy realizes he’s immortal.~Renee Minkowski sits in a café in Paris in 1948. The city is still recovering from World War II, and she anxiously reads a newspaper about the latest of the Fae coming forward. So far, she hasn't been asked to fly over the City of Lights and roost in the Eiffel Tower, so she assumes that the Faerie Courts don't want dragons in the open yet.





	1. Wild Winds of Warning

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a _joke_. 
> 
> Title and chapter titles from Storm by Blackmore's Night

The Fair Folk aren't _unknown_. They haven’t been hidden in nearly a century, most of the “Fae Rights” campaign long over with. There’s lingering prejudice, of course, but when Doug’s middle school gym class has their swimming unit and Doug’s sides split with gills, his classmates just mutter about how bad their times are going to look next to a mer’s and move on.

Doug doesn’t correct their one misconception. He’s not merfolk; he’s a _siren_. He eats sushi all the time because otherwise he might be hungry for _them._

But it's easier to be Mer than Siren to the public, to _humans._ Other Fae or Legends understand that some sirens or concubi or wendigo can't just _stop_ eating what they're made to, but sometimes humans can barely handle dryads, let alone _dragons_.

Not that the dragons came forward with the rest of the fae those decades ago. There's still so few of them left. 

Doug's mother teaches him to hunt for oysters in the Massachusetts Bay. His father teaches him to lure stray dogs and cats and even, once, a raccoon into the Charles River. They both show him to apply a glamour, to shift forms, to _Sing_.

Once he finds his Song, he never wants to stop.

The first time someone gives him their Name, Doug is eighteen. He's working, keeping up appearances for human society. “Can I have your name?” he asks, marker posed over a paper cup. Absently, the customer mumbles out two words.

Something in Doug's insides _shifts_ , and he realizes what's happened immediately. The human in front of him shivers at their sudden goosebumps. 

Doug whispers their name and feels a magic he's never used before begin to rise. He begs off the rest of his shift, claiming a Merfolk issue that his human manager accepts without question. 

The rest of the day is horrifyingly blank, and he comes to around midnight with the taste of blood in his mouth and an empty space where before the Name had been.

That's the first time he drinks. He just killed–he just _ate_ someone, after eighteen years 'vegetarian’, and it's cataclysmic. So he drinks, and then he runs.

His Song isn’t _right_ when he’s drunk, he learns, and he can’t actually Thrall someone with it. Strays and housepets will fall for it, as well as most wild animals, but not humans. Not people. He spends the better part of the next couple years on the move and under the influence of anything he can get his hands on. Alcohol is the easiest to get a hold of, but he tries more drugs than he knew existed as well. He hates them. He’s too afraid to stop.

He meets Kate in a bar. He’s starving and terrified, and she’s so sweet, and he lets her take him home and feed him but not Feed him. She laughs when he Sings at his microwaved soup. 

Doug sleeps on her couch for a few days before she takes him to bed. He wonders why legends paint sirens as the seducers—he has nothing on the human hurricane of Kate Garcia. 

They’re good as friends. They’re good as lovers. They’re terrible as parents.

Kate tells him she’s pregnant and Doug panics like he only has once before, with blood in his mouth and a stranger’s Name fading from his power. Kate thinks he’s Merfolk, that’s what his ID says, that’s what he told her when she dumped his drunk ass in the bathtub and he sprouted gills. Doug knows that his child will be either full siren or full human. There’s no halvsies in magic.

He’s prays they’ll be human.

Anne is born with gills.

And Doug tries. He tries to clean up his act, to be sober and clean and available, but then his absent-minded humming makes the grocery store clerk’s eyes glaze over and he hits the bottle again, hard. He and Kate fight about it. 

She calls him a monster. He almost tells her how _right_ she is.

Anne needs him. She needs a father that can teach her to swim, to Sing, to control her hunger and only terrorize the small animal community. He’s so fucking scared, though, and it only gets worse, until Kate tells him he can’t see his daughter.

He can’t _not_ see Anne. Kate will tell her she’s Mer, and that’s not untrue, but it’s not the whole truth. When the hunger starts, and her Song is sung… His baby will kill someone, and the world will learn about the darker side of magic-born beings.

So he takes his little girl from her bed in the middle of the night. And he crashes.

 

* * *

 

There's a man in a suit with a pleasant smile, and every instinct Doug has tells him to be wary. Then the man blinks away his glamour, and Doug is trapped in a room with a vampire.

“Douglas Eiffel, Mer, thirty years old. What's the decay rate on a pulse beacon transmission?”

Doug thinks he'll regret answering that question for the rest of his life.


	2. Nothing Ever Could Contain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a lot of fun and i need to not have so many incubus headcanons

Daniel is only a year old when the Incubus speaks to him. At first, he's afraid that the demon knows what he is, but he accepts the story Daniel gives him. No one is looking for Paula Feynman anymore, not when she "died" in an explosion last year.

But the Incubus doesn't recognize him, and addresses him as human even when Daniel comes to know him as Major Warren Kepler. 

He passes as human very, very well, apparently, that not even a creature that feeds on life energy realizes he’s immortal. Normally, he’s back at full power by this point, but he seems to be ‘recharging’ slowly this time around.

It probably doesn’t help that he’s been in human form the whole time. He transformed at the last second before his death fourteen months ago, and everytime he even considers stretching his wings, he remembers concussive force and the feeling of shrapnel biting into his/her/their flesh, his plumage torn to shreds… 

So he doesn’t shift.

Most of Special Projects is fae, though, or at least not human. From Major Kepler to the naga, Miss Young, to the gorgon in Artificial Intelligence with the prosthetic eyes. None of them recognize him as one of them, and he’s okay with that. There’s been horror stories of what happens to people like Daniel if they caught get caught—wings clipped, plumage plucked, _grounded_. Daniel knows he’s in danger every second he’s there, but he can’t quite bring himself to leave. Every time he considers it, Kepler flashes those dark, deadly eyes at him, and he stays.

It’s not even a thrall: phoenixes are immune.

So he keeps his head down and lets them all make their assumptions.

Then Major Kepler brings in Alana.

Alana Maxwell is a wonder. A homunculus that shook the control of her alchemist and killed them to protect her free will, who then went on to teach herself code and, from there, AI theory. She’s even an alchemical genius on top of it all.

He watches her work one day, nothing better to do, and so he catches her as she tips something from a flask into her coffee.

“What’s that?”

“Hmm? Oh.” She shakes the flask at him, liquid sloshing. “Alchemical elixir. It’s sort of… I don’t know, my lifeblood? It keeps me _functioning_.” She shrugs. “I’m not alive, not really, so my ‘life energy’ is formulated.”

“So if you run out, what, you die?”

“Yep.” She makes a face as she drinks her coffee. “Tastes awful. Doesn’t help that mine is sort of a watered down version. Homunculi like me, the ones with personality, are rare, because technically we’re animated with phoenix down.” Daniel goes very, very still. “If I could get more phoenix down, I’d be less likely to die any second, but that’s probably not going to happen.”

“Yeah, probably not,” he echoes, and excuses himself. He has no reason to feel guilty.

He does anyway.

 

* * *

 

They get caught, the three of them.

Their captors are smart enough to know what Kepler is, so he’s pacing tight circles inside a devil’s trap sigil while Alana and Daniel are bound to chairs with zip ties. Kepler has abandoned his glamour, sclera black and teeth razor sharp as he growls, low and inhuman. 

Alana is paler than usual, her already fair skin white as a sheet. “Major,” she says, hoarse.

“Just hold on a little longer,” he orders. “We’ll get out of this.”

“A little longer needs to be less than two hours,” she tells him, “or you won’t have your favorite hacker anymore.”

“You’re going to be fine,” Kepler snarls, but his tail is lashing in agitation. He doesn’t have a plan yet, and while Daniel knows he will, he’s not sure Alana can afford to wait. So he reaches for the fire in his breast, metaphorically blows on the embers until his body temperature starts to creep up.

Kepler’s black, black eyes zero in on him. “Mister Jacobi,” he says, breathless and hungry and furious, “have you been holding out on me?”

“In my defense,” Daniel says, “you never asked.” The zip ties melt, and he shakes molten plastic from his wrists. “Alana, I’m so, so sorry,” he tells her, and bursts into flame.

It’s so nice to have wings again.

Daniel launches into the air, passing close enough to the devil’s trap on the ceiling that the paint scorches and warps. Kepler moves too fast for the human eye, tail slicing the ties from Alana’s wrists. He lifts her onto his back. “Mister Jacobi?” Daniel crows, melodious. “Burn this place to the ground.” And he’s gone, Alana with him, so Daniel sings.

_With pleasure._

When the building is blazing and the people inside either screaming or so much ash, he finds them again at the nearest SI-5 safehouse. He drops Alana’s flask onto her lap and flutters to perch on the back of an armchair. Alana unscrews the flask as fast as her trembling hands will allow and drains it.

She laughs a little after, voice shaky. “You look like a giant orange peacock,” she tells him, and he fluffs his feathers with indignation.

“Jacobi.” Kepler steps out of the safehouse bathroom, glamour back in place. There’s a perfect splatter of blood along his jaw, and Daniel should not want to kiss someone that’s going to kill him this badly. He wonders if his next life will be this gone for Major Warren Kepler. “Please return to a form that can speak to me.”

Daniel squawks and flaps his wings at the door to the roof. Kepler sighs, but opens it and follows Daniel to the roof so he can set himself aflame again. When the fire dies, he’s human once more. He rolls his shoulders back and passes Kepler on his way back down with poise. If he’s walking into a cage, then he will go with dignity and grace. 

He’s only halfway down the stairs when Kepler grabs his wrist and spins him ‘round, crowding him against the wall. His eyes are black again. “Daniel Jacobi, you are _resplendent._ ”

“Major?” Daniel has never actually seen a frenzied incubus, but he imagines Kepler is halfway there. Has he eaten recently? 

Kepler breathes in deep, holds it. He steps back and gestures down. Daniel goes, and wonders if he just signed away the last of his freedom.

A deal with a demon never felt so sweet.

Alana pats the couch next to her, and he sits without hesitating. She curls into his side. “Now I know why you’re always so warm,” she teases.

“Aren’t you mad at me?” he asks. “Aren’t you upset that I lied to you?”

“In your defense, we never asked.”

That startles a laugh out of him, and then he can’t stop. He laughs until it’s not laughter anymore, and he’s sobbing with fear and guilt into her shoulder. Phoenixes are easy criers, and he’s always thought he’s worse than the rest. 

Daniel does have the presence of mind to catch a few of his tears and rub them into the scrapes on Alana’s wrists. She heals so slow, usually, but the sores disappear in seconds now.

“Not that I don’t appreciate it,” Alana sniffs, and now she’s crying, too, “but what’s wrong?”

“This would have never happened if I just told you from the start,” he tells her. “You never would have been in danger today if I’d just—”

“We’re always in danger, Dan!” she interrupts. “I think Kepler’s more upset than me, because he just found out he could have taken you to bed months ago.”

“Doctor Maxwell.”

“I’m not wrong,” she says. 

Daniel scrubs vigorously at his cheeks with his sleeve. “What’s she talking about, Major?”

“I was not going to risk your life over a _meal_ , Daniel,” Kepler says, “but that is no longer a concern, is it?”

Daniel swallows. “It depends on what happens to me now.”

“Nothing. You are still my Ballistics specialist and right hand man.” Kepler tilts his head, watching. “Now you are just far less fragile.”

“I won’t be caged, Major,” Daniel tells him. “I won’t be _pinioned_ without a fight.”

“What use to me is a firebird that can’t fly?” Kepler asks, and Daniel feels like he’s soaring without wings.

Three days later, in Kepler's home on the outskirts of Cape Canaveral, a homunculus drops a brilliant yellow feather into a beaker. Nearby, an incubus leans against a phoenix in human form, feeding off that little affection. And the phoenix himself has abandoned his glamour for the first time in three years, his eyes gold and lit from within.


	3. Welcome to the Dragon's Lair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tarot meanings in this are Rider-Waite, which was interesting, because my deck is not Rider-Waite, so I was unfamiliar with these.

Renee Minkowski sits in a café in Paris in 1948. The city is still recovering from World War II, and she anxiously reads a newspaper about the latest of the Fae coming forward. So far, she hasn't been asked to fly over the City of Lights and roost in the Eiffel Tower, so she assumes that the Faerie Courts don't want dragons in the open yet.

It's all very _humanitarian_ so far. Dryads helping the harvest, Merfolk diving to recover the effects of lost sailors, alchemists and doctors creating more effective vaccines together. No _scary_ fae, no demons or vampires or sirens. 

The chair across the table scrapes across the cobblestones of the sidewalk, and Renee looks up. A young man smiles at her. He's dressed in white, which is _daring_ , and the way the sun shines on his hair turns the ends to gold. “Hello, mademoiselle,” he says in perfect French. He places a deck of cards in the center of the table. “Would you like to see your future?”

Ah. He's either a con man or an Oracle. If he's the latter, what he says could be very, very important. Still, he's _rude_. “What makes you think I'm interested?”

“Everyone wants to know their Fate.” The Oracle sits in the chair, grabbing the deck and shuffling. Hand painted tarot, not the popular Rider-Waite printing. Renee has a Rider-Waite in her hoard back in Poland. She itches to add this deck to it. The cards shuffle too fast to catch details, but she can tell they're exquisite.

He deals six cards, two rows of three. He points to the top row. “Near future.” And the bottom row. “Distant future. Where would you like to begin?” 

A waitress approaches cautiously. She smells of magic, and knows what the Oracle's presence must mean. She sets Renee's breakfast gently in front of her, graciously accepts the newspaper when Renee passes it to her, and beats a hasty retreat when the Oracle smiles at her. 

“Hedgewitches,” he sighs sadly. “So superstitious. Well, Mademoiselle Minkowski?” 

Renee startles. He _is_ a Seer, then. “Distant,” she says. 

He beams at her, and it's as though the clouds have parted for him alone, the sun shining through his face. “A wonderful choice.”

He taps the first card. “This is your role in the event to come. The next card is the event, and the third is the outcome.” He flips the first card, and Renee snorts at the art. A likeness of the Oracle gazing at the horizon, eyes shaded with one hand, a letter in the other. “The page of wands,” he says. “An explorer, ever striving forward, to go boldly where no man has gone before.” He blinks rapidly, shakes his head as though to clear it.

His fingers brush the middle card before he suddenly reaches for the deck, drawing two more cards and placing them above and below. He flips the top one first: the card shows the Oracle at an alchemist's table, glancing over his shoulder with a malicious expression. “Seven of swords. A betrayal.” He flips the middle and cringes: a tree struck by lightning. “The tower. Destruction and despair.” The bottom card. “The World.” He traces the meticulous star map painted there. “It means completion, accomplishment, but... Right now, I think it literally means the _world_.” He looks at her, but his eyes are distant. “Commander, you are going to be amazing.”

Renee blushes a little. Oracles don’t use words like ‘amazing’. They’re unbiased, but this one is gazing at her starstruck. “There’s one more card,” she murmurs, and if the world only knew how easy it was to make a dragon bashful. 

“Ah, yes, the outcome.” He flips the card: a dark green dragon curled around a single coin. Renee pulls in a sharp breath. “The ace of pentacles. Wealth. Prosperity. For what you endure, you will be rewarded.”

Five cards reveal her Fate. She’s not sure she wants it. “I can only hope the reward is worth the ordeal.” She lifts her cooling coffee and blows on it, feeling the ceramic heat. Not quite breathing fire, but enough to settle her nerves and remind her she can protect herself. 

The Oracle neatly stacks the first reading and sets in aside. “There is one more reading, Mademoiselle. Shall we continue?” Renee steels herself and nods. 

He points to the other row of cards. “The same spread. Your role, the event, the outcome.” He turns the first: the Fool stands at the edge of a cliff. “The Fool. Taking a chance.” He looks at her through his eyelashes. “I do believe our kind is taking quite a few chances, don’t you agree?”

“Our kind?” she asks. He doesn’t smell like a dragon.

“Magic Touched. The Gods’ Chosen. Faerie Kissed. Whichever you prefer.”

He thinks she’s _human._ Magic-blessed, but human. “I suppose you’re correct,” she tells him.

He flips the next card: the chariot of Apollo stares back. “The Sun. This is my favorite card.”

“You _are_ his Oracle,” Renee says slyly, and he laughs.

“I am. But The Sun also represents growth and joy. Something good is coming, and it leads to…” He turns the last card: two figures stand between four poles decorated in ribbons, hands clasped together, wrists tied with red bows. “The four of wands. A celebration.”

The figures are the card are small enough she can’t see, but they feel familiar, and she knows a handfasting when she sees it. “Thank you,” she says, “for your warning.”

“Of course, Commander.”

“I didn’t command anything during the war, Monsieur,” she corrects, and he laughs, shuffling his cards back into the deck. 

“You haven’t _yet_ ,” he says. As he speaks, a card pitches loose, shooting from the deck to hit Renee’s coffee cup with a soft _clink._ The card lands face up, and Renee falls in love a little with the art.

A painted version of the Oracle across from her offers a blue and silver dragon a chalice full of tuberoses. “The ace of cups,” the man murmurs. “New love.”

Renee gingerly lifts the card to offer it back. With a little concentration, silver-blue scales dot the inside of her wrist where he can see. “Oracle,” she says, voice quavering. “Would you like to join me for breakfast?”

“My name is Dominik,” he says, humbled and awed. He takes the card with trembling hands. “And I would be delighted, my Lady Dragon.”

A ray of sunlight lands on their hands, each holding one side of the tarot card. Renee knows a blessing when she sees it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tuberoses are common flowers in love and lust spells.
> 
> As always, I'm boxonthenile on tumblr and @nile_speaks on twitter.


	4. A Most Bewitching Entity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you think I was gonna drop CHANGELING LOVELACE on you in Page of Wands and... not do her "origin story"?
> 
> ~~hooray for even more background worldbuilding that doesn't fucking matter!~~
> 
> I have one more of these "backstory" bits planned, because Nik came out of left field and said "hey i want one"

There’s nothing special about Isabel Lovelace.

She grows up knowing this. She’s not remarkable, human and mundane. Average in every way, even for the horribly average creature she is.

Except for… one thing.

When Isabel is thirteen, she skips school. Once, one class, because she’s bored and the nearby park has rowan trees that are perfect for reading under in August. So she cuts her last class and reads about space, curled up in a fork of the branches. The rowans have always felt like home.

Her teacher calls her father. Her father confronts her, furious, and asks where she was.

She means to say, "I was there, Mrs. Colvin must've missed me."

She _actually_ says, "I went to the park and read about stars for two hours."

But she’s always been like that. Always changes her mind about the lie at the last second, like the words are almost impossible to say. 

And also…

When Isabel is fifteen, she goes with her friends and gets her ears pierced. Stainless steel, the safe ones she’s assured, and the needle burns as it punches through.

The earrings itch and burn for two weeks before she gives up and pulls them from her ears, cursing the artist that did it. The earrings must be nickel, she thinks, nickel is a common allergy. It keeps happening, she notices. All her jewelry tends to itch or irritate. She goes for stainless steel, every time, because her nickel allergy is so bad, but it always hurts after a while. She always seems to find the false advertisements or cheaters.

She’s always been unlucky like that.

Isabel seems to bring bad luck wherever she goes. It follows in her wake, it feels, like a cloud, like pollen trailing off of her. It’s always such little things: something breaking at an inopportune moment, tripping over nothing, one notable occasion where someone crushed a milk carton and drenched everyone around her. 

They never happen to Isabel, just nearby, enough that she begins to notice.

When she goes to college, there’s an open class for magic theory. She wasn’t going to go, but she was bored and had three hours to kill and it was better than writing her paper for english comp. 

She zones out while the instructor drones about the Sources of elemental magic. Next to her, a boy’s pen snaps and destroys his notes. 

“—the Fae, however, draw their power from leylines, the channels of natural magic. Rumors are that changelings have their connection to leylines limited until—”

“What’s a Changeling?” Isabel asks, and the instructor stops.

“...A good question, actually. There hasn’t been a Changeling in over a century, because they are the result of the Fae swapping one of their own with a human child. Understandably, this isn’t practiced anymore. There were also cases within those where the Fae _forgot_ they were Fae at all.” He segues back into his lecture, but Isabel isn’t listening.

Changeling. 

She doesn’t go back to that class again, throws herself into classes and the Air Force after that. If she doesn’t think about it, she doesn’t have to think about how it makes sense, how her friends used to joke that she was “half-Fae”, that she has always felt like she was missing something. She ignores it. She ignores it. She ignores it.

She takes to leadership with grace. It’s comfortable, familiar, easy. She takes _orders_ with less grace. Far less grace.

She’s twenty-eight and hurtling towards a burnout and it comes to a head when a girl in a bar asks what she is and Isabel _chokes_ on the word she wants to say.

She wants to say, “Human, why?”

She actually says, “I’m not sure anymore.”

 

* * *

 

Isabel’s hands shake as she paces outside the community center. There's resources for Magic-Blessed just finding their powers, but… would those even help? "I accidentally froze my bathtub" is very different from "I don't think I'm as human as I was told." 

The woman at the front desk leans out, her cat ears perked forward. "You can come in! This is a safe space."

Isabel blinks a few times. "Oh. Oh, no, I don't need welcomed to enter."

Her ear flicks. "Alright, in that case, take your time."

She does. She takes her sweet fucking time with it, because entering and admitting this feels so damned _terrifying_ she wants to just run, go back to pretending everything is fine until it is. 

She’s about to turn around and leave when she sees the secretary look down very suddenly, ears folded back. Isabel knows feline body language and the Shifter is _frightened_.

Isabel shoves through the doors as an older man reaches the desk, leans across it. “Come on, Lily, what have you got to lose?”

“I can’t,” the Shifter, Lily, answers softly. “I… I don’t have time to date right now, okay?”

“It doesn’t have to be serious,” the man presses. He’s at least fifteen years older than her.

“She said no,” Isabel interrupts. The man turns to face her, and Lily looks relieved. “Do you make it a habit of being the _creepiest_ person I’ve ever met?”

He stammers, offronted, and Isabel lifts an eyebrow. She’s unimpressed. Eventually he gives up, tries to retreat with grace, and _immediately_ trips over his untied shoelace and runs into the door. Lily bursts into laughter.

“Thank you,” she says when he’s gone. “For the rescue and the curse.”

“Curse?”

“Oh, was that… not? I thought I smelled juniper when he tripped, and you’re Fae, so…”

Isabel chews on her lip. “That’s actually why I’m here… I.” She takes a deep breath. “I didn’t know I was… I was Fae until recently.”

“Oh,” Lily says softly. “Well, Miss, um.”

“Isabel.”

“Isabel. You can call me Lillian. That’s a little unusual, admittedly, but I know a few people that could probably help you.” Her ears prick forward. “I can tell you about them over dinner?”

Isabel laughs. “I thought you didn’t have time.”

“I don’t have time for anything serious,” Lillian corrects. “But I don’t have any plans tonight.”

(Turns out, a cat Shifter’s ears are very sensitive. Turns out, Lillian knows a lot about Fae. Turns out, Isabel isn’t really any different now, she just knows a few new things about herself.)

 

* * *

 

The first Changeling in a hundred and twenty years follows a Naga into a polygraph room. “Oh, you don’t have to use that,” she says. 

Miss Young glances at her in surprise. “Oh?”

“I’m Fae,” Isabel says. “I can’t lie.”

Young watches her, unmoving, for a moment. “That’s not what your birth certificate says.”

“I’m a Changeling,” Isabel says. “Hook me up, if you want, it’s not going to beep.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary, Captain,” Young tells her. “Why don’t you take a seat?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall im so excited for thissssssssssssss


End file.
